


A Year of Sunday Afternoons

by AnEarHat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Fluff, Implied Smut, M/M, Teenlock, unabashed fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnEarHat/pseuds/AnEarHat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday afternoons are their favourite afternoons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year of Sunday Afternoons

Sunday afternoons are John Watson's favourite afternoons. His mother is at a friend's house, his sister at the pub, and his Sherlock in his bedroom. Every Sunday afternoon is their time to just be, when time is moving languidly, lips are murmuring, hands caressing, eyes smiling.

Sunday afternoons in spring are filled with light brushes of lips and gentle laughter. Sherlock forgets, in these instances, how to deny a smile. The tiny pieces of sky in his eyes light up with the pale sunlight, shining onto John as they look upon him in adoration. Skin, shy from winter, is slowly revealed and praised with the press of lips and is sighed over by a welcome breeze from the open bedroom window. Hair is left splayed across pillows and duvets and bedroom floors, fanning out from its growers' head as it rests wherever they have ended up. Hands stroke and dance across chests and cheeks, brush over eyelids and lips, movements sweet and fleeting, fitting in with the rhythm of quiet conversations and uncontrollable bouts of chuckling. They kiss and they straddle and they peel back shirts and there is no pressure for anything more, no need for it. John tells Sherlock that he is beautiful, Sherlock tells John that he is everything.

Sunday afternoons in summer are filled with sweat and long kisses and slick, slow movements. Sherlock's legs hang around John's waist as his neck is nibbled, sucked, kissed, torturously and meticulously and perfectly. John seats himself on Sherlock and hands, damp against eachother, are pinned above heads when they're not needed for pushing back hair or gripping onto thighs, or waists, or hips. Languid meetings of lips and tongues, time slowing down as the movements spread over the minutes, the firm but slow drags of teeth reminding them of reality. It is too hot for clothes; tanned, salty skin is everywhere, smooth and slippery, being pressed, scratched, felt. Toes curl and eyes shut, while sighs mix and murmurs are often lost in the heat. The window is still open from spring, but no relieving breeze drifts into the room, it simply makes their small-bedroomed world easier to breathe in, less stifling, more free. They roll over one another and push the sheets from the bed, mouths curling into tired smiles before they meet once more. John tells Sherlock that he is delicious, Sherlock tells John that he is encompassing.

Sunday afternoons in autumn are filled with blankets and rosy cheeks. Arms are wrapped around waists, legs are curled up before them, heads lean on shoulders, and smiles are fixed on faces. When the leaves turn golden and let go of their branches, John watches them through his window with Sherlock pressed up behind him, reluctant to let go of his sturdy constant as easily as the leaves do. Mouths become sticky with caramel as toffee apples are crunched through, making kisses sweeter and hand-holding more concrete. Hair smells of smoke and is soft, the sweat of summer long washed out and replaced with autumnal crispness, September haircuts, November traditions. Darkness binds them earlier and earlier, encouraging cuddles beneath blankets and quiet movies as backgrounds to inside jokes and warm conversations. Hands stroke absentmindedly over backs and up arms, squeeze reassuringly, and cup jaws that need to be tilted up for kissing. John tells Sherlock that he is amazing, Sherlock tells John that he is perfect.

Sunday afternoons in winter are filled with face-to-face cuddles and thick duvets. Noses brush against eachother as limbs tangle and smiles dance between them. John makes Sherlock help put tinsel up, Sherlock makes John buy new tinsel and completely takes over decoration. Eyes are tired and content, bodies are close, heartbeats are steady. Kisses are slower than spring, warm where summer was hot, and taste of home rather than caramel. Tales are told of past Christmasses, past New Years, past Valentines, and ears listen happily. Chests are pressed to chests, palms to palms, lips to lips. Duvets are drawn up around shoulders so that jumpers can be abandoned. The window opens only when it snows, and snowflakes take the opportunity to melt on tongues and eyelashes where they can be kissed off. Warm hands are everywhere, drawing out smiles and giggles and whispers. They hold and stroke, tuck hair behind ears and nudge eyelids downwards. John tells Sherlock that he loves him, and Sherlock tells John that he loves him more.

Sunday afternoons are Sherlock Holmes's favourite afternoons. John's mother is at a friend's house, his sister at the pub, and his Sherlock in his bedroom. Every Sunday afternoon is their time to just be, when time is moving languidly, lips are murmurig, hands caressing, eyes smiling.


End file.
